


Rare Form

by granger_danger



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1930s AU, American AU, F/M, Funeral Home Meet Cute, Muggle AU, One Shot Collection, Rare Pairings, Space AU, Swearing, don't at me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:55:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25702420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/granger_danger/pseuds/granger_danger
Summary: A home for my HP rare pair drabbles, ficlets, and short one-shots. Fluff, tropes, random AUs, and meet-sleazy moments abound!Table of Contents with all story details in Chapter 1.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Charlie Weasley, Pansy Parkinson/Percy Weasley, Sirius Black/Luna Lovegood
Comments: 6
Kudos: 26





	1. Table of Contents

**Author's Note:**

> Most of these short works were written off-the-cuff for funsies and were originally posted on Tumblr as part of drunk drabbles or other prompts and challenges. There are more of these on the horizon, so I thought it was time they had a place to live! 
> 
> Only rare pairs here, but keep your eyes peeled in mid to late August for a separate Dramione drabble collection work! 
> 
> The Table of Contents below has all tags, ratings, summaries, and warnings for all of the works, but the highest rating level is M and no archive warnings apply to any of the stories here.

**1\. Table of Contents**

You are here!  
  


* * *

**2\. Arrangement of Convenience**

**Pairing:** Hermione/Charlie, past Dramione  
 **Trope/Prompt/Summary:** Fake Dating in Space, prompted by [Pacific Rimbaud](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PacificRimbaud/pseuds/PacificRimbaud) for my 200 Followers Drabbleganza  
 **Tags:** Space AU, Crack, Fake Dating, Explicit Language, Sexual Tension  
 **Rating:** T

* * *

**3\. Unicorns**

**Pairing:** Luna/Sirius  
 **Trope/Prompt/Summary:** Funeral Home Meet-cute, as inspired by [this Tumblr post.](https://grangerdangerfics.tumblr.com/post/625185347131834368/omg-now-i-want-to-write-a-fic-that-hits-all-of)  
 **Tags:** Muggle AU, Terrible Tropes, Funeral Home Meet-Cute, Age Difference (between legal adults), Swearing, Very Light Inferred Bondage, Implied Sex, Nargles  
 **Rating:** M

* * *

4\. Improvidence

Pairing: Parkweasel (Pansy/Percy)  
Trope/Prompt/Summary: 1930s American Muggle AU featuring RebelliousDebutante!Pansy written in response to Grey/Complexity Parkweasel prompt for [Week 3 of the Last Drabble Writer Standing Rare Pair Round.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29512155/chapters/72548784)  
Tags: Muggle AU, 1930s AU, American AU, Sexual Tension, Pining, Adversaries to Lovers, Percy is Fucked, Swearing, Smoking  
Rating: T  
Word Count: 500


	2. Arrangement of Convenience (Charlie/Hermione Space AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Pairing:** Hermione/Charlie, past Dramione  
>  **Trope/Prompt/Summary:** Fake Dating in Space, prompted by [Pacific Rimbaud](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PacificRimbaud/pseuds/PacificRimbaud) for my 200 Followers Drabbleganza  
>  **Tags:** Space AU, Crack, Fake Dating, Explicit Language, Sexual Tension  
>  **Rating:** T

It was an arrangement of convenience, nothing less and nothing more. 

Had been, that is. 

Until the fucking artificial gravity system started flickering again. 

Senator-in-Exile Hermione Granger was seeking refuge on the Shellship, an aging Class C intergalactic vessel, after the rather abrupt coup and subsequent dissolution of democracy on her home planet of Swoteron. Her primary allegiance was with the Alliance, but she’d always had a soft spot for the remaining Gryffindor rebels. They lived and died with a kind of righteous fire she found innately appealing. Plus she’d been a part of the rebellion herself, of course, in her youth. 

Decorated, in fact. Not that it mattered anymore.

Captain Bill Weasley and his wife Fleur, the ship’s pilot, had been nothing short of accommodating during her six-month stay on the ship. And if she and the Captain’s brother and ship mechanic Charlie had come to an agreement, well, that was between them.

It was only because of the impending Imperial Inspection, led by her arch-nemesis and erstwhile lover. And, of course, the upcoming stop in the Outer Reaches, where Charlie had too many blushing admirers for his own good. 

None of it was real anyway. Until it was. 

Inspector Malfoy swept down the chrome corridor, black cape sweeping behind him. She couldn’t believe she’d ever let him stick his haughty dick in her. 

“Former Senator Granger.” He gave a small nod, its politeness fully eclipsed by his sneer. “I see you’re slumming it again. No surprise there.” 

“Senator Granger will do,” she said, gritting her gleaming teeth at him. “The Weasleys have honor. In fact, I feel I’ve significantly raised my standards.

Charlie strode down the corridor from the Engine Room, sliding in next to her and wrapping a warm arm around her waist. “Everything good, Hermione?”

“Just fine, my love.” She darted up to give him a lingering peck on the lips, hoping she wasn’t laying it on too thick. The damned _sparks_ were there again, undeniable; that was a wrinkle she’d hadn’t anticipated. “Inspector Malfoy was just going.” 

Malfoy’s nose twitched as he visibly wrestled to keep his features still. “Disgusting.” He turned and swept away. 

Charlie shook his head at her, grinning roguishly. “Are you like that with everyone you date?”

“Dat-ED, past tense,” she sniffed, bristling with indignation. “And no,” she added, hitting him on the shoulder, “of course I’m not! I’m pretty sure he is, though.” 

Charlie just regarded her with that wide-open smile, his shoulders shaking slightly. She knew he was laughing at her, of course, but somehow when he did it she didn’t mind. 

The cabin lights blinked off briefly then back on, and Charlie and Hermione exchanged a look, bracing for it. 

For the third time that week, the artificial gravity system fluttered with a groan, then gave out. Hermione found herself hovering approximately a foot off the ground, listing unexpectedly to the right. “This again?”

“After last time I rigged it so that it should catch after a few seconds, and the back-up generator should come online.” He hovered near her, catching her gently around the waist and grasping one of the handles welded into the wall for just such a purpose. 

No sooner had he spoken than a faint mechanical hum began. The ship shuddered slightly. 

They both tumbled the short distance down to the metal floor, and she found herself tangled up in him, all torso and neck and limbs. She was breathless from the fall and surprised by the warmth of him. 

He was smiling at her from inches away with a reverence that she did not feel worthy of, as a disgraced politician slumped on the floor of a second-rate spacecraft after engaging in some petty, unwinnable war with her questionable ex. And yet there it was, his broad, unguarded smile aimed directly at her, amplified by his irritatingly natural charisma. 

The fucking _sparks_. His _freckles_. Those soft _curls_ , catching copper in the dim artificial light. The way he made her feel like she lived somewhere where she could see a sun.

She should have gotten up by now, but of course she hadn’t.

Then again, neither had he. 

It wasn’t ever real, until it was. 

She hated it when things didn’t go to plan. 


	3. Unicorns (Sirius/Luna Muggle AU Funeral Home Meet-Cute)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Pairing:** Luna/Sirius  
>  **Trope/Prompt/Summary:** Funeral Home Meet-Cute, as inspired by [this Tumblr post](https://grangerdangerfics.tumblr.com/post/625185347131834368/omg-now-i-want-to-write-a-fic-that-hits-all-of)  
>  **Tags:** Muggle AU, Terrible Tropes Funeral Home Meet-Cute, Age Difference (between legal adults), Swearing, Very Light Inferred Bondage, Implied Sex, Nargles  
>  **Rating:** M  
>  **Notes: Written tipsy and in one sitting as part of a self-imposed Terrible Tropes challenge!**

It’s Sirius’s second Thursday back at the family business when he first sees her.

Fuck, East L.A. is hot. Hot in a different way than Thailand was hot or Aruba was hot or even than Mexico was hot. Those were all a lounge on the beach with your sixth mai tai kind of hot. A fresh white linens in a king resort suite with mosquito netting around the bed kind of hot. This is a depressing, sizzling pavement in front of a strip mall funeral home next to a dubious-looking mattress store kind of hot.

And of course his pride will not allow him business apparel less formal than these black slacks, this pressed black button-down, this insufferable gray and purple paisley silk tie, usually beloved but now cursed and damp with his neck sweat. Even without the suit coat his ensemble is murder in this weather.

Lovegood Funeral Services has a sort of dingy and disappointing feeling to it, the same general vibe as if you were leaving your beloved dead to rest at a Greyhound bus station, but at least it is air conditioned. As soon as Sirius steps through the door, he’s blasted with a wave of blissfully cold air so forceful that his sweat-slick black curls, down to his shoulders now, are tossed back like he is in a shampoo commercial.

The girl at the desk is texting furiously, her blond ponytail bobbing. Perky, even in avoidance. A little chime announces his entrance, the same four notes an old clock might make on a quarter of the hour, but she doesn’t look up. Sirius plasters on his best sales smile and glances at the silver magnetic name tag fastened precariously close to the cleavage-heavy bust line of what can only be described as an LBD.

“Lavender,” he says, with his trademark easy charm. “How are you today? Hot one, huh?”

Lavender, presumably, does nothing to acknowledge his existence. Her brow furrows as she stabs at her smartphone.

“Listen, Lavender, I’m sure you’re busy, but I’m out here with Black Family Caskets. We had a contract with you all in the past, and I’d like to talk to you about your renewal options…”

The hairs on Sirius’s neck rise, and he has the curious, prickling, discomfiting sensation that he is being watched. It is definitely not by Lavender, who has merged entirely with her rose gold iPhone 11.

He looks up.

“Jesus fucking Christ!”

At the top landing of the Gothic staircase rising behind the front desk, a woman in her mid-twenties with flowing white blonde hair down to her waist is standing silently in a white linen shift dress, staring at him with somewhat vacant clear blue eyes.

She’s pretty. Kind of disturbing, but definitely pretty.

Lavender finally looks up, and seeing the horror on his face, glances over her shoulder. “Oh,” she says with a shrug. “Yeah. That’s Luna.”

“Luna?” Sirius swallows as Luna, apparently, floats down the stairs and comes to stand directly between him and Lavender, approximately six inches closer to him than social etiquette would deem appropriate.

She peers right into his eyes, and he falls into the blue sea of her gaze, transfixed.

“The dead are … quiet today.” She speaks softly, directly into the deepest realest part of him, then turns abruptly and drifts back up the stairs, sing-songing a nursery rhyme in a minor key.

Sirius stares after her, blinking hard.

“She’s the owner’s daughter,” Lavender says, tossing her hands up noncommittally. “You get used to it.”

“Oh.” Usually Sirius would be able to snap back, offer some friendly retort. Make Lavender like him. But he feels … strangely shaken. Strangely taken with this strange funeral home’s strange daughter.

“If you give me your card,” — Lavender pops her gum and resumes texting, not looking up as she speaks to him — “I’ll give it to Xeno. I know he likes your caskets.” She suddenly beams, a dazzling smile, which is puzzling because she isn’t looking at Sirius at all. Then he hears a digital click and realizes that she is taking a selfie.

Sirius slides his business card across the counter. For the rest of the day, he contemplates Luna’s blue eyes, ponders the silence of the dead.

* * *

The second time he sees her is on his third Friday back on the job. He’s popped by Lovegood Funeral Services to make sure the caskets were delivered as planned. To make sure they are properly arranged in the display room as befits the Black Family name, under Regulus’s orders.

Lavender, communing with her phone again, and in another black dress that is about four inches too short for the situation, leads him wordlessly to the showroom and gestures him in, then leaves him there under the roar of the air conditioner.

It’s cool and quiet in the showroom. Refreshingly still, the only noise the white noise of the AC. Sirius runs one hand over the Joshua Natural Grained Solid Oak Casket with gray silk lining, admires the Homestead Teak Casket with a tasteful black interior.

And then his neck tingles again. He senses her before he sees her.

Luna Lovegood sits bolt upright from where she has seemingly ensconced herself in the Orion Mahogany Deluxe casket with vermilion satin cushioning. Her smile is jarring, ever so slightly unhinged. Sirius feels his pulse throb in his throat. He isn’t sure if it is fear or desire. He isn’t sure he cares.

“Oh, hello Sirius. I’ve just had the loveliest nap.”

Sirius, who cannot recall ever telling her his name, freezes. Until she beckons him with one milky white hand.

He goes to her as though pulled by invisible magnetic forces.

She grabs hold of his tie. Crimson today, peppered with little gold fleur de lis. She waves her other pale hand in a spiral around his right temple. “You have so many nargles,” she says dreamily. “You do know the best cure for nargles?”

“Nargles?” he asks blankly. She’s wearing another white dress, this one with long lace bell sleeves, and she smells like patchouli, sandalwood, something else he can’t quite place. Her earrings appear to be … a pair of French radishes? Relatively fresh. But he barely registers this before he falls again, transfixed, into her fathomless eyes. “The best cure?”

“Sex of course, silly,” Luna says with a girlish giggle, passing one velvet soft thumb down his jawline.

Sirius swallows and tries, wistfully, to recall the last time he fucked someone. Amy, probably, that swimwear model, in Tahiti. That was three months gone now, before Regulus had called him back.

“I could help you with that, you know.” Luna has wrapped his tie around her hand twice, and she pulls him closer, closer, until their faces are only inches apart. She is still making uncomfortably intense eye contact, still sitting inside the model casket. Sirius’s favorite casket, if he had to choose.

“LUUUU-NA!” Lavender bellows from the other room. “YOUR DAD WANTS YOU!”

She hops out of the casket, steadying herself on his shoulder.

“Come see me,” Luna croons over her shoulder as she skips off with a childish giggle.

At the desk, Sirius passes another of his business cards to Lavender. “Would you give this to Luna for me?”

Lavender rolls her eyes, unceasing in the tapping of her thumb against her phone. “Fine.”

On the forty-five minute commute back to his soulless marble-encrusted bachelor pad, Sirius wonders about nargles.

* * *

The third time he sees her is on his fourth Saturday back.

This time, he is not here on business.

He parks his Lexus on the street behind the funeral home, looking towards the back door, where she’s asked him to meet her.

While he waits, he scrolls through her texts again. Seven crystal balls. Something apocryphal and indecipherable about nargles. Three sparkle emojis on either side of “you are beautiful.”

What is he even doing?

And then Luna emerges from the battered backdoor of Lovegood Funeral Services, moving past the enormous blue dumpster with so much grace that she almost appears to be hovering off the ground. Her dress is white, of course, but strappy, tighter than he has come to expect. 

It’s so hot that even from thirty feet away, she looks hazy to him through the heat waves rising from the blacktop.

Feeling as though he has left his body, he slams the car door behind him, locks it with the fob. He crosses towards her, and she meets him halfway. Her hand, when it clutches his, is improbably cool.

She leads him next door to the fleabag motel. He does not ask any questions when she produces a key card. He does not ask any questions when she pushes him down on the bed and wraps his tie — a delicate floral in yellow, gray, and black — around his wrists and knots it. He does not ask any questions as she sinks down onto him, moaning more sincerely, more earnestly than anyone he has been with has in at least a decade.

“You have to say my name — mmm — when you come,” she whispers, bobbing above him. “To — oh — dispell — mmm — the nargles.”

He ejaculates so hard that he almost cries. He comes, of course, shouting her name.

“There,” she whispers after, draping herself over him very thoroughly, and even if it is a bit cloying, she kisses his nose with endearing tenderness. “Your nargles are gone now.”

It is the best sex of his life, and that is saying something.

On the long drive home through the slow crawl of traffic, Sirius considers Luna.

He is ready to believe in nargles, unicorns, ley lines, Tantric orgasms, the various stutterings and silences of the dead. He is ready to buy a dozen dead roses and have them delivered to her door.

Because, you know, she would _get_ it.

Sirius is pretty sure that Luna is magic.


	4. Improvidence (Percy/Pansy 1930s Muggle AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Parkweasel (Pansy/Percy)  
> Trope/Prompt/Summary: 1930s American Muggle AU featuring RebelliousDebutante!Pansy written in response to Grey/Complexity Parkweasel prompt for [Week 3 of the Last Drabble Writer Standing Rare Pair Round.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29512155/chapters/72548784)  
> Tags: Muggle AU, 1930s AU, American AU, Sexual Tension, Pining, Adversaries to Lovers, Percy is Fucked, Swearing, Smoking  
> Rating: T  
> Word Count: 500

At exactly 9:00 am, Percy Weasley finds himself gliding towards Grosse Pointe in a chauffeured Parkmobile Falcon, his workday upended before it can begin. He adjusts his tortoiseshell glasses and rereads:

_**Skeeter’s Scandalous Society Scribbles**  
June 16th, 1936  
**LOCK UP YOUR DAUGHTERS… PLEASE!**  
A gaggle of glamour girls gone wrong—glibly self-styled as “Lilith’s Spawn”—caused a stir at Eloise Midgeon’s debut when they unleashed several dozen garter snakes during the father-daughter dance. Miss Pansy Parkinson (sole heiress to renowned magnate Peregrine Parkinson’s automobile dynasty) and her pals have previously disrupted this season with mineral oil-spiked punch and unseemly stunts involving stockings. These menace minxes must be taken into hand before they wreak further havoc—perhaps in Newport, where the Parkinsons summer._

The stifling gray city rolls past, ripe with storm. Percy sighs, glowering down at the scrawled note:

_WEASLEY—  
BRING HER TO HEEL POST-HASTE. WILL WITHHOLD HER TRUST OTHERWISE. UNTIL BACK AT BRYN MAWR, WRANGLING BRAT YOUR FULL-TIME JOB.  
—PP_

Parkinson Motors now operates with military precision, 212% more efficient and 387% more lucrative than when Percy first took his position, and no good deed goes unpunished. The reformation of lapsed debutantes lands outside “other duties as delegated,” but refusing would be tantamount to resigning.

Percy sweats into his suit and makes a note to request a salary increase. When Stan deposits him at Parkmont, he removes his hat and rings the bell.

* * *

Percy never leaves work early; the Falcon coasts away from Parkmont at 3:47 pm, nonetheless. Lake St. Clair’s slate surface is jagged beneath a pensive sky.

Next to him, a folder. The summer’s social calendar. One first-class rail ticket to Newport. A bonus check impressive enough to belie the need for a raise.

Christ.

She’d kept him waiting all day, perspiring in the Solarium.

Percy closes his eyes. Seeing only bobbed black finger waves and dark, insolent eyes, he opens them again.

He casts his sweat-damp jacket off, something he’s never done outside his home. He yanks his tie free, recalling her impertinent fingers mussing the knot. Testing him.

He still smells orchids, and her perfume. Impossible. Expensive.

Percy, who doesn’t smoke, begs a cigarette off Stan and lights it, fingers shaking.

The decorative bow at the front of her dress, perhaps _intentionally_ askew.

“Re-tie it,” he’d said.

“Yes, sir,” she’d said, all impudence.

But she’d _done_ it, looking daggers at him, deliberately tying it poorly.

“Do I have to show you?” he’d said darkly, his vigilance slipping even before he’d pulled loose the silk ties and worked them, slowly, meticulously, into a low bow trailing over her small, perfect breasts.

He blows smoke out through the open window and counts the seconds between lightning and thunder.

The sky opens, finally. Percy turns his face towards the pouring rain like a child. Lets his glasses smear. Lets his pomade melt. Lets his cigarette fizzle.

Lets the pristine leather interior be ruined, and fuck Peregrine Parkinson.

Even when he is soaked through, he does not close the window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As soon as I got this LDWS prompt, a plunny seized me. This scene was originally 1200 words and I somehow managed to distill it to 500. 😅
> 
> I am STRONGLY CONSIDERING turning this into a long one-shot or short multi-chap, so please let me know if that's something you would be interested in! 👀
> 
> My interpretation and understanding of Parkweasel owes a great debt to the absolutely incredible work of [PacificRimbaud](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PacificRimbaud/pseuds/PacificRimbaud), which you should PLEASE IMMEDIATELY check out if you have not already done so! 
> 
> You can find me on tumblr:

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! 
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr as grangerdangerfics](grangerdangerfics.tumblr.com).
> 
> Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended. No profit is being made from this creation.


End file.
